


I can’t do this alone (sometimes I just need a light)

by Only_angel_28



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (see author's note), Acts of Kindness, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - Small Town, American Harry Styles, American Louis Tomlinson, Colorado, Comfort, Crying, Doctor Harry Styles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Family Member Death, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Harry needs to take better care of himself, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Hugging, Inspired by dlibyh, Kindness, Loneliness, Louis has the biggest heart, M/M, Meet-Cute, Meet-Ugly, POV Harry, Small Towns, Strangers to Lovers, Tattoo Artist Louis Tomlinson, Tenderness, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Harry, because the circumstances that cause them to meet are not cute, but Harry and Louis definitely are, it's actually more of a
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_angel_28/pseuds/Only_angel_28
Summary: “Harry,” he says after another contemplative moment, “can I hug you?”It’s been...well, Harry doesn’t actually know how long it’s been. Less than an hour, probably, but already Louis says his name like it’s safe in his mouth, and now he’s opening his arms like Harry could be safe there too.“Please,” Harry nearly sobs, and sinks into him the way butter melts on toast. It’s an apt metaphor, really, because what Louis is giving him is as essential and sustaining as a loaf of bread to a starving man. His basic need for physical affection is as vital as his need for sustenance, for sleep, and he can’t believe he’s allowed himself to ignore it for so long.Or: Harry is having a rough time. Louis is the kind stranger who makes him smile again.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 97
Kudos: 386
Collections: Walls Fic Fest





	I can’t do this alone (sometimes I just need a light)

**Author's Note:**

> ***PLEASE READ***
> 
> Jay is alive in this universe, as I wish with all my heart she still was in ours, and is mentioned very briefly in conversation. 
> 
> The family member death mentioned in the tags is an original character and a relative of Harry's. 
> 
> If you have any concerns about the tags or the content of this fic, you're more than welcome to message me on tumblr once the authors have been revealed and I'll be happy to answer any questions you may have. While this story touches on issues of grief, loss, and loneliness, I intended the overall tone of this fic to be sweet and hopeful. I hope I've accomplished that and people will give it a chance, but please take care of yourself first. Your mental health is much more important than my little story. That being said, if you do read it I hope it makes you smile and brings a little brightness to your day :) 
> 
> Lastly, I would like to thank the mods of this fest, Nic and Maggie, for being so inclusive, accommodating, and just all around lovely. Thank you, Maggie, for your encouragement and enthusiasm when I was struggling with whether or not to sign up. And congratulations on mod-ing your very first fest! You've done a wonderful job :) 
> 
> Title is from _There For You_ by Troye Sivan and Martin Garrix

_don't you let it kill you_

_even when it hurts like hell_

_oh, whatever tears you apart_

_don't let it break your heart_

_time takes time to heal it_

_you can't do it by yourself_

<<<>>>

  
Harry is having a bad day.

A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

He remembers reading that book with his mom and older sister, Gemma, growing up. He isn’t so much a fan of the movie adaption with Steve Carell (he much prefers him in _Little Miss Sunshine_ ).

Unlike Alexander, Harry didn’t wake up with gum stuck in his hair. What he did wake up to, however, was a phone call from his mom informing him that his great-grandmother, whom he had affectionately referred to as GG, had passed away. That news was the icing on the cake that was the last few miserable months of his life. On second thought, calling it a cake is probably misleading. Cake signifies happy, celebratory occasions. Harry hasn’t had many reasons to celebrate lately.

He’d moved from his home in Oregon to the tiny town of Evergreen, Colorado a little over six months ago when he received his residency placement at Saint Luke’s Medical Center in Denver. At the time, he’d been thrilled. He chose the quaint little town thirty minutes outside the city because he thought it would feel more like home than the modern studio apartments Denver had to offer. Nestled in between the mountains, Evergreen really could not have been more picturesque.

The apartment Harry rents is one of three units in a converted house that’s built right into the side of the mountain. It’s tiny but cozy, and the location is prime as far as real estate goes in a town as small as Evergreen. It’s located right off the main street, just above a dive bar called _Mullingar’s_ that’s also built into the mountain. A winding path of stone steps paves the way to Harry’s front door from the street below. Just a few feet off the path, about halfway up, is the bar’s rooftop patio, decked out in Christmas lights all year round.

His landlord is an easy-going guy named Niall who also owns the aforementioned bar. Harry had liked him immediately upon meeting him, and was hopeful that the two of them would become friends. Clearly he had underestimated the time commitment required as the owner of what were essentially two small businesses. Couple that with Harry’s crazy hours at the hospital, and the only time he sees hide or hair of Niall is when he occasionally stops in after a shift to pick up some takeout from the bar. He expends what little remains of his energy on a few minutes of friendly conversation before stumbling home in his best impersonation of a zombie and promptly falling asleep on the couch, still in his scrubs with his dinner untouched on the unpacked cardboard boxes that double as his coffee table.

Yes, that is another thing in Harry’s life that hasn’t gone as planned. He’d had big dreams (and quite a few Pinterest inspiration boards) for his new place. He was brimming with ideas for how to play up the rustic charm of the cedar plank walls and quirky built-ins, and really make the space homey and comfortable. His grand vision was a sleek minimalist vibe with a Southwestern, bohemian twist. A rug or two, a couple house plants, some art on the walls, a little macramé. None of it ever came to fruition. Nearly six months have passed, and Harry is still living out of a suitcase, dodging unpacked boxes left and right, and falling asleep on his couch more often than not.

He’s so fucking tired. All the time. And even worse than that, he’s lonely. Desperately so. As an introvert, he’s accustomed to being his own best company. He thrives on alone time, and finds he needs it to recharge after the long hours required by his physically demanding and emotionally taxing job. But his current way of existing is testing the limits of his previously amiable relationship with solitude.

He misses his family. He misses his friends. He misses people in general. The only ones he ever interacts with are either patients who are trying to die on him whilst he fights tooth and nail for the opposite outcome, or his co-workers who are pleasant enough but are also just as stressed out and overworked as he is. He can’t remember the last conversation he had face-to-face with someone that didn’t revolve around work.

He can’t remember the last time someone touched him.

Sex is practically a foreign concept at this point, a distant, _distant_ memory. He can hardly even muster the energy for a little self-love anymore. The bottle of lube he bought just before he moved still has the plastic seal intact.

Needless to say, Harry isn’t exactly the poster boy for mental health at the moment. And as it tends to do, the universe had found him at his lowest point, and given him a good, sharp kick to the gut in the form of this morning’s devastating news. He’d had to grin and bear it through a grueling fourteen hour shift at the hospital despite feeling like his heart was fracturing into a million pieces, and all he had wanted afterwards was his favorite comfort food (mac n’ cheese), a glass of wine, and his bed (which he was determined to make it to this time, damn it).

What he really wants is his mom, and maybe a hug, too. Thankfully, over the last few months, he’s become an expert at compensating for the complete lack of physical affection in his life with unhealthy coping mechanisms. Who needs love and affection when you can have loneliness and cynicism anyway?

His plans had been derailed, however, when he’d returned home to his apartment, poured himself a glass of wine, and began preparing his gourmet dinner courtesy of Kraft’s famous blue box, only to discover that the milk in his fridge had expired two weeks ago. Tears of frustration welled up in his eyes as he poured the foul-smelling liquid down the drain, rinsed the empty carton, and chucked it in the recycling bin. His wine glass sat untouched on the counter as he covered his half-prepared mac n’ cheese, turned off the burner, and grabbed his keys from the hook by the door.

Everything closes early on week nights in Evergreen, which meant if Harry wanted to get milk he could either drive to the gas station on the edge of town, or make the thirty minute trek to civilization for a proper grocery store. He pulls up the notes app on his phone where he keeps a running grocery list (which he’s clearly been neglecting to update, as evidenced by this evening’s unfortunate sour milk incident). Seeing that there are a couple household items on the list that he can’t procure from a gas station, he makes the executive decision to heft it to the Target in Lakewood.

<<<>>>

Half an hour later, Harry finds himself aimlessly wandering the aisles of Target, the bright artificial lights overhead feeling much harsher than usual in his fragile state. He had come here with a purpose, and yet he can’t seem to manage anything more than a lethargic amble.

A dense fog has descended on him, causing his head to feel heavy as if it’s full of cotton, his thoughts hazy and sluggish. He spends several minutes staring at the different varieties of household cleaner without really seeing them before he finally snaps himself out of it and grabs the first bottle his hand comes into contact with. He drops it in his cart without even checking the label, and continues on in much the same fashion to collect the other items on his list.

Once he has all the essentials, he allows himself to indulge in a little retail therapy. For him, that means a trip to the baking aisle where he can fill his cart with an exorbitant amount of ingredients for all the stress baking he doesn’t actually have time for. Baking is a science as much as it is an art, and he takes comfort in the routine of it, the preciseness of measuring the ingredients. It allows him to turn off his brain for a while and lose himself in the process, allows him to bring a little sweetness into the world when things have taken a turn for the bitter.

Maybe just thinking about the process of it will be stress relieving. Maybe if he mentally goes through all the steps of making his grandma’s apple crumble cake it will have the same effect as actually baking it. Like visualization or something. That’s a technique for coping with stress, isn’t it?

Shaking his head, he grabs a couple boxed mixes to appease the staunch realist in him who knows he doesn’t have time to bake anything from scratch, and calls it good. Thoughts of his grandma’s cooking snap him back to the reality of his nightmare of a day (week? month? month _s_?) and he decides to make one more stop at the greeting cards to browse the sympathy section.

After his mom had called with the news, he’d been able to briefly speak to his grandma and express how sorry he was for the loss of her mom. He can’t even imagine what it would be like to lose a parent, a mother, regardless of age.

Sending her a handwritten, heartfelt card would be a nice gesture though, one his GG would approve of. She was famous for the sweet, personal messages she inscribed inside every card she sent. She never missed an occasion either. She had the date of every family member’s birthday, wedding anniversary, or otherwise important milestone committed to memory. She made everyone feel special. _Loved_. Harry had never met anyone with a heart as big as hers, or a spirit quite as kind and gentle. The prospect of a world without her in it feels cruel and dark.

He has to pause his browsing to wipe his eyes as the words of sympathy on the cards in front of him begin to run and blur together. At one time, he had dedicated an hour every Sunday to call her so they could catch up on the happenings of each other’s lives. He’s ashamed to admit that those calls became fewer and further between as his schedule grew more and more hectic and the demands of his job seemed to increase exponentially.

The last time he had spoken to her was roughly two weeks ago. It had been short and sweet because he was at the hospital, about to head to an on-call room to try and catch a bit of sleep after a double shift, but he’s glad now that he made the effort to call. If he would have known then that that was going to be his last conversation with her, he would have stayed on the phone for hours, regardless of how tired he was.

It’s the thought of her voice that gets to him, that and the crippling sense of panic that washes over him when he realizes he can’t recall the exact tone of it. He should have paid closer attention. He should have memorized it when he had the chance.

Tears fall freely from his eyes, and he fights back a sob as he sinks down into a crouch, his head in his hands. He’s having an emotional breakdown in the card aisle of Target at eight o’clock on a Tuesday, and he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed about it. Not when the sting of his grief is so fierce, not when the weight of the last few months seems to have come crashing down on him all at once, this one event the catalyst responsible for sparking an emotional avalanche.

He can’t hold back the next sob that feels like it’s ripped right from the center of his chest, from his core. He tries to stifle it so as to at least not draw attention to himself, but he feels the unmistakable sensation of eyes on him as a few other shoppers awkwardly skirt past the aisle he’s occupying.

His hands are shaking and he’s so exhausted he’s surprised he even has the energy to cry at this point, and in that moment he can’t see a way out, doesn’t know how to pull his head above the waterline of the flood that has become his life. He gasps for breath until his brain jolts out of its emotional stupor, and his doctor instincts kick in. He places his hand on his chest to ground himself, and tries to coordinate his breathing with the steady beat of his heart.

He’s just managed to coax himself into a rhythm when a pair of shoes enters his field of vision. They’re black, the shoes. Classic old skool Vans. Harry has the exact same pair in his closet, and somewhere in one of the many unpacked boxes that litter his apartment he has a yellow pair too.

The owner of the black Vans has skin that looks like it was spun from solid gold, and the most beautiful ankles Harry has ever seen. It’s a strange thought, but he can’t really blame himself for it when this whole situation is pretty absurd.

“Hey,” a soft voice murmurs, airy and sweet like the vanilla sponge cake Harry wishes he had time to bake. “Everything alright down there?”

 _No_ , Harry wants to scoff, _everything is not all right_. Everything is incredibly shitty, has been for a while now, and it’s taken losing someone he loves for Harry to realize just how fucked up his life has become.

He must take too long to answer because then the owner of the black Vans and the beautiful ankles is crouching down next to him so they’re eye to eye.

It just so happens that the man with the most beautiful ankles Harry has ever seen also has the most beautiful face Harry has ever seen. That seems rather unfair, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t there be a limit on the amount of beauty one person is allotted? This guy has _way_ more than his fair share.

He’s wearing faded blue jeans (cuffed to show off his ankles, which, as has already been established, are beautiful), a white _Oasis_ t-shirt from the _Definitely Maybe_ Tour, and a plaid bomber jacket with leather trim. There’s a soft-looking, grey knit beanie on his head, with hair the color of dark honey spilling out from beneath it in a soft, side-swept fringe. He has the bluest eyes and the cutest fucking nose Harry has ever seen. It should be illegal. All of it should.

“Hi, there,” he says gently, and _dear god_ his voice is just as beautiful as the rest of him. “I’m sorry to bother you, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’m Louis.”

He smiles and holds out his hand, and at this point Harry should expect it—he really, _really_ should—but somehow he’s still unprepared for how beautiful this man’s, _Louis’_ , hands are.

He’s at a loss for words, completely at the end of his emotional tether, and part of him wonders if this is all not some elaborate hallucination cooked up by his lonely, grief-stricken mind.

He doesn’t over-think it. He’s too tired for thinking of any kind, let alone his typical variety of analyzing everything ad nauseum. He reaches out and takes Louis’ hand in his own. Simple as that.

Just as he was unprepared for Louis’ beauty, he’s equally unprepared for the tide of emotion that wells up in his chest when their skin touches. He’s so starved for affection that a simple handshake is enough to make him feel like he’s drowning.

His tears come hard and fast, and this time he’s powerless to stop them. His balance falters, and he lets go of Louis’ hand as he wobbles to the side, his equilibrium thrown off after having been in a crouched position for so long.

“There now, steady, love,” Louis says, his hand twitching in an aborted gesture like he wants to reach out and touch Harry, to comfort him, but isn’t sure if he should.

 _That’s a shame_. Harry really wants to be touched. He misses having Louis’ hand in his already.

Tears are steaming down his face and he’s so _embarrassed_. He should get up, apologize to this lovely, kind-hearted soul, abandon his cart, and make a break for the exit. His milk is probably lukewarm by now anyway.

“Can you tell me your name?” Louis asks, the dulcet tone of his voice interrupting Harry’s racing thoughts.

Harry makes the mistake of looking at him, and is once again floored by his beauty. His head is tilted to the side and he’s studying Harry with such open, genuine concern. His brows are drawn together over his impossibly blue eyes, and Harry could get lost in them, he thinks, quite easily. He might already be.

From the foggy depths of his overwhelmed brain, he manages to extract his ability to speak.

“Harry,” he answers. That one word is all he can muster, but at least it’s progress.

In response, Louis smiles at him like he hung the moon, so he guesses he’s earned the right to be a little bit smug about it.

“Hi, Harry,” Louis greets with a friendly wave, even though there’s less than two feet of space between them.

The goofiness of the gesture instantly makes Harry feel at ease in Louis’ presence, and causes warmth and fondness to spread from the center of his chest to his fingertips, tingling there.

“Would it be okay if I touched you?” Louis wonders, his voice gentle like all the sharpness of his vowels and consonants has been filed down to soft curves. “You look a bit pale, love. Unless that’s just your natural fair complexion, in which case it’s gorgeous and we can forget I said anything.”

That startles a giggle out of Harry. An actual, honest-to-god giggle. The sound is so foreign to him that, once again, it takes him a moment to recover his ability to speak.

“I am rather pale,” he concedes. “I’m from Oregon.”

Louis gives him another one of _those_ smiles, the catastrophically beautiful kind.

Yet again, Harry feels warmth blossom in his chest. “But yes,” he stammers, “you can, um, you can touch me.”

Louis immediately reaches out to reclaim Harry’s hand, their palms touching and his fingertips pressing lightly into Harry’s inner wrist. His face pinches in concentration, and it prompts another laugh out of Harry.

“What are you doing?” he asks, a mix of curious and amused.

“Sorry,” Louis apologizes, laughing a little himself. “I was just checking your pulse. My mom’s a nurse, and I’m afraid some of her training has worn off on me over the years.”

Harry bites his lip in anticipation of what he’s going to say next. “I’m actually a doctor?” he confesses, his tone wavering just enough to make it sound like a question.

“Are you asking me or telling?” Louis teases. His fingertips flutter over Harry’s skin in the lightest caress.

Harry has to close his eyes and swallow hard. There’s a lump in his throat. It very well may be his heart. Medically speaking, he knows that’s impossible, but it sure feels like the organ has lodged itself there.

“Telling,” he answers after a beat. “I’m a resident at Saint Luke’s in Denver.”

“No way! That’s where my mom used to work. Do you have a specialty in mind yet?”

Harry is a bit caught off guard by the question. He can’t recall the last time someone spoke to him this way—taking interest in his life and asking him questions like they genuinely want to know the answers.

“I’m thinking obstetrics or neonatology,” he confesses. He hasn’t told anyone yet, not even his mom, but he’s been thinking about it for a while now. “I’ve done some rotations in the NICU and it’s…” he pauses to wet his lips, “it’s difficult work, but I really think I could make a difference there.”

He knows he’s a slow speaker with a tendency to ramble sometimes, and a tone that borders on morbid, but Louis is quiet and patient through his whole explanation. When Harry looks at him he can tell Louis is completely focused on the words he is speaking rather than planning what he’s going to say in response. It’s strangely intimate, given the setting, to be the sole focus of someone’s attention. At work, Harry’s attention is constantly divided between his patients. It’s the same for his co-workers, multitasking is simply part of the job. For this reason, perhaps, he can’t remember the last time he had such a captive audience. With Louis’ blue eyes intent on his face as he listens, Harry feels important in a way he hasn’t since moving to Evergreen.

“Wow, Harry, that’s…” he pauses to shake his head, seemingly processing Harry’s words and choosing his own with care, “…yeah, _wow_.”

They both giggle at his inarticulate response. He sounds legitimately awed by Harry’s ambitions, which is both flattering and humbling.

“Seriously, Harry, that’s amazing! My mom, she’s a nurse midwife. I think it’s been a little over a year now since she left the hospital to work for a birthing center…” he trails off, his brows furrowed in contemplation as he scratches at the stubble lining his jaw. The hair there is the color of cinnamon, Harry notices, and the spicy-sweet scent of Louis’ aftershave is only becoming stronger the more he rubs at his skin. Harry is a little intoxicated by it, both the aroma and the visual.

“…But maybe you knew her,” Louis asks, tilting his head to the side with a hopeful expression, “Johannah Deakin?”

“Sorry,” Harry shakes his head, not recognizing the name. “I think we probably just missed each other. I only moved here six months ago.”

“Oh, that’s alright. Small world, isn’t it?” Louis motions to the space beside Harry. “Can I sit?” he asks.

At this point, Harry should insist that he does. He has no idea how Louis has been holding himself in a squat for so long. His thigh muscles must be seriously impressive. They certainly look impressive with the way they strain at the light-washed denim of his jeans.

“Also,” Louis continues once he’s made himself comfortable on his bum next to Harry, both their backs pressed against the shelf behind them, “I swear I’m not a creep. Which I realize might be exactly what an actual creep would say in this situation, but my mom says I have very honest eyes, so, here, have a look for yourself...” he leans closer, widens his eyes comically, and implores Harry to stare into the depths of his soul, presumably to prove that he’s telling the truth.

For one absurd moment, Harry thinks he might kiss him.

He leans back after a few seconds have passed—seemingly oblivious to Harry’s brief waltz with insanity—and with a completely serious expression says, “I’m not doing a very good job of convincing you I’m not a weirdo, am I?”

“Maybe not,” Harry shrugs, “but that’s alright. I like weird. Weird is cool.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. Also, you can tell your mom that she was right about your eyes. Very honest.”

 _And very blue_ , he thinks and just manages to refrain from voicing aloud.

Louis narrows said eyes at him in a manner that’s more playful than suspicious. “Are you _dragging_ me right now, curly?”

 _Curly_. Have mercy. Harry doesn’t know if he can survive the use of affectionate nicknames.

“Not at all!”

Louis purses his lips and continues to size him up until Harry finally breaks with a laugh.

“I swear! I just didn’t know eyes could be ‘honest’ before,” he uses air quotes for emphasis, scrunching up his nose when it makes Louis look up to the ceiling and shake his head in indignation, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “but now I’m a believer.”

“Oh god,” he groans, dropping his head back down, “just please don’t start singing that _Smashmouth_ song from Shrek. Both my little brother and my nephew are obsessed with that movie. It’s all they want to watch when they come over to spend the night at my apartment, and if I never hear that song ever again it will _still_ be too soon.”

Harry looks at him quizzically for a moment, trying to place the reference.

With a martyred sigh, Louis starts singing, “ _Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer_ …” and despite the fact that he has a lovely singing voice, Harry tips his head back and _cackles_.

When was the last time he laughed like this—unabashed and full of feeling? It feels indulgent, like a luxury, sweet and honest.

“You’re definitely a weirdo,” he says, shocking even himself with how easily he’s able to tease Louis.

Is that...is he...he’s _flirting_ , isn’t he? It’s been a while, but he’s pretty sure what he’s doing qualifies as flirting. And Louis is flirting right back. He may have even been the one who started it. _God_. What a wonderful thought.

“And _you_ are cheeky,” Louis retorts, “but I like that in a person. And I’ll have you know, I prefer the term ‘quirky’ to describe my weirdness. Besides, it got you to laugh, didn’t it? What’s a little _quirkiness_ between friends?

 _Friends_.

 _God_ , Louis is charming and funny and kind and a great listener—not to mention the most beautiful person Harry has ever seen, a beauty that seems only to be matched, if not surpassed, by that of his heart—and Harry would love to be his friend. If he’s being entirely honest, he’d love to be more than that too, but the thought of friendship is overwhelming enough as it is.

“No, no,” he says, “I told you, I like weird, or ‘quirky.’ _I’m_ quirky, so. It’s mutual.”

“So, you’re quirky…”

Harry nods.

“And you’re a doctor…”

Harry nods again, a smile starting to creep in. He has a slight suspicion where this is going, but he doesn’t want to cheat Louis out of his punch line.

“Tell me, then, _Doctor Strange_ …” he pauses—rightfully so—for Harry to laugh at the Marvel reference, then continues with, “how are you finding residency so far?”

Harry experiences a bit of conversational whiplash at the change in topic. It wasn’t that abrupt or unexpected considering they had been discussing the hospital a few minutes ago, but he still finds himself reeling, his mood plummeting at the prospect of delving into that particular subject. The light, flirty atmosphere between them shifts into something tense and fragile, like a poorly placed suture, one that’s been pulled too tight and is in danger of breaking.

“It’s...” he sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose, pushing his fingertips into the corners of his eyes to keep his tear ducts from misbehaving. He doesn’t want to cry again. “It’s more difficult than I thought it was going to be. No one becomes a doctor on a whim or because it’s easy. I knew it was going to be hard, I just didn’t know it was going to be _this_ hard.”

He thinks about putting on a brave face—the same familiar mask he donned for work today—in the end, he finds he’s too tired to be tough. He knows he has a bit of a hero complex. You don’t study to become a doctor unless you’re motivated—at least in part—by the desire to save people. He’s been so busy running around trying to save others he hasn’t realized how desperate he himself is for a little salvation. He’s so used to being the strong one. For his patients. For his co-workers and superiors. For his mom so she doesn’t worry. It goes against his nature, to admit he needs help, that he can’t do it by himself. No man is an island, but Harry’s been alone out at sea for so long he isn’t sure what it would feel like to come to port.

Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing, to lighten the load he’s carrying, to let someone in. His fingers tremble with the arthritic ache of someone who’s been holding on much too tight for far too long. It’s time to let go. And this relative stranger— _Louis_ —is somehow the softest place to land.

Still he hesitates, remaining quiet for a moment, unsure of whether he should continue, if he should burden Louis with more of his problems. As wonderful as he’s been, he’s still essentially a stranger. He doesn’t need to hear about Harry’s emotional baggage.

He must be able to read the hesitation on Harry’s face, because he gives him a small but definitive nod, as if to communicate that he wants to hear whatever Harry’s conflicted about sharing. It turns out that’s all the encouragement Harry needs.

“I expected residency to be tough,” he admits. “It’s supposed to be, after all. It’s supposed to test and challenge you, to stretch you in ways you never imagined. Every prospective medical student knows that. It’s...the other stuff I wasn’t prepared for.”

Harry swallows three times before his throat is clear enough for him to be able to speak again. There are so many things he could say to sum up his life since moving to Evergreen. If you can even call it a life, that is. He’s not sure what he’s been doing really qualifies as living. Surviving is probably a more accurate term, and the truth is he’s hanging on by a thread.

He could tell Louis about the crushing sense of loneliness that has seeped into every corner of his heart and consumed him. He could tell him about the paradox of sleep and the first year medical resident, how he is expected to be on top of his game, mind sharp and focused at all times, a demand made rather ironic by the schedule he has to keep. He could even tell him about the reason he’s currently mid-emotional-breakdown on the floor of Target. Though, given the way Louis looks at him and the fact that they’re in the sympathy section of the card aisle, he thinks he’s smart enough to connect the dots, or at least most of them, and conclude that Harry is grieving a loss of some kind. The details don’t really matter.

He doesn’t say any of that, however. What he goes for in the end is, “I haven’t been hugged in almost six months.”

Once it’s out there he can’t take it back, no matter how desperately he wants to snatch the words from the air and shove them back in his mouth. Somehow, that, more than anything else, has defeated him. It’s such a simple thing, really. Out of all his problems, it would be the most easily remedied. At least, in theory. In reality, he severely underestimated how a lack of physical intimacy would affect his mental health, and he doesn’t even know how to begin fixing it.

“Can I…” Louis pauses to clear his throat.

Harry momentarily forgot he was there, that he wasn’t alone. He’s so used to it by now.

Louis’ eyes flit to his, and there’s sympathy in them, but no pity. Harry isn’t sure how he manages to achieve that complex cocktail of an emotional response, but he’s equally impressed by it and grateful for it. Mostly, Louis just looks sad. And nervous. Like what he’s about to ask is a risk, like it might cost him something to voice it.

“Harry,” he says after another contemplative moment, “can I hug you?”

It’s been... _well_ , Harry doesn’t actually know how long it’s been. Less than an hour, probably, but already Louis says his name like it’s safe in his mouth, and now he’s opening his arms like Harry could be safe there too.

“ _Please_ ,” Harry nearly sobs, and sinks into him the way butter melts on toast. It’s an apt metaphor, really, because what Louis is giving him is as essential and sustaining as a loaf of bread to a starving man. His basic need for physical affection is as vital as his need for sustenance, for sleep, and he can’t believe he’s allowed himself to ignore it for so long.

On one hand, he knows that he’s so touch-starved any form of affection would be welcome at this point. On the other, he registers that Louis really is an exceptionally good hugger. If it were an Olympic sport, he’d be a gold medalist several times over.

His arms are warm and encompassing—one of them curled around Harry’s shoulders in a way that feels protective, his thumb rubbing circles into Harry’s shoulder blade through his t-shirt, and the other curved around his waist, his hand flat against Harry’s back, moving up and down his spine in a tender, soothing motion. The little tufts of hair that are sticking out of his beanie are exceedingly soft, tickling Harry’s face where he has it buried in Louis’ neck, and, _god_ , he smells heavenly.

His scent is warm and spicy-sweet like cinnamon, vanilla, and cloves. It reminds Harry of winter, of Christmas. More specifically, of sitting cozily next to a roaring fire during the holiday season, wrapped in warmth and comfort and the serene feeling that, just for a little while, all is right in the world.

It’s probably the best hug Harry has ever received, and not just because of how badly he needed it. Distantly, he realizes that he’s trembling, that tears are streaming down his face, and that he’s fisting Louis’ jacket so tightly he should probably be embarrassed. In all honesty, he doesn’t give a single fuck.

Any trace of hesitation that might have lingered is erased completely when Louis turns his face into Harry’s hair so his lips are at his ear, and whispers, “You’re alright, darling, I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

His fingers twist in Harry’s curls and stroke down to the nape of his neck, giving him a gentle squeeze there. Harry is tempted to let it go on forever—Louis doesn’t seem like he’d be bothered—but eventually he forces himself to let go.

When he pulls back, Louis is already smiling at him. He doesn’t awkwardly skirt around it, or brush off what just occurred between them with some meaningless quip, and Harry is so, _so_ grateful.

It’s rare to find a man who is as comfortable with expressing vulnerability as Louis seems to be. Toxic masculinity has really done a number on society, but beyond that, it’s an issue of humanity—this need to always appear strong and unaffected, this inclination to equate any form of vulnerability with weakness.

It’s not healthy to ignore your emotions; feelings, by their very nature, are meant to be expressed, and this is where Harry feels a strong sense of guilt. He hasn’t been taking care of himself. He hasn’t been looking out for his own mental health and well-being. He can espouse the harmful affects of repressing emotions until he’s blue in the face, but it means very little if he doesn’t practice what he preaches. He’s supposed to be a physician, a healer, and yet he’s been so careless with his own health. He took an oath to do no harm. It’s about time he realizes that applies to himself just as much as it does to anyone under his care.

When Louis eventually speaks, Harry is once again grateful he doesn’t fill the silence with a frivolous non sequitur. Sometimes a little levity is a welcome distraction after an emotionally tense moment. In this context, though, Harry thinks it would only serve to take away from the beauty of what they just shared. He doesn’t want to cheapen it with a joke or a throwaway comment. He’s glad Louis seems to be on the same page.

“Here,” he says simply, pulling out a pen and a small scrap of paper and writing something down before passing it over to Harry.

 _On second thought_ , Harry muses, frowning as he looks down at the paper in his hand, maybe he misread Louis completely.

“A coupon for a free car wash?” he asks with easily discernible confusion. He’s trying to give Louis the benefit of the doubt, and not jump to the conclusion that this whole situation has just been one big joke to him.

“What?” Louis replies, sounding just as confused as Harry is.

In explanation, Harry tilts the piece of paper closer for Louis to see.

His eyes immediately go wide when he recognizes what Harry’s holding. “Oh, shit,” he curses. “Sorry, I thought it was a blank piece of paper! My wallet is not the most organized place, I’ll admit.” He grimaces at Harry with an adorably sheepish expression. “Turn it over,” he suggests quietly, his voice soft and impossibly tender.

Harry flips the paper in his hand to find ten digits scrawled on the back along with the name _Louis Tomlinson_ and the message _if you ever need someone to talk to_ signed with a teeny tiny little smiley face with X’s for eyes.

Harry is endeared. And relieved. For one awful moment he had thought Louis was making fun of him. He really should have known better. Nothing in their interaction up to this point suggested that Louis was anything other than a kind-hearted, empathetic person. The type of person who takes the time to comfort emotionally fragile strangers in the card aisle of Target.

“Is it legible?” Louis wonders, biting his lip.

Harry looks from Louis’ hopeful, somewhat self-deprecating expression to the piece of paper in his hands, and finally manages a weak smile.

“Actually, here, I think I have a...” Louis digs in his wallet, eventually pulling out a business card with a triumphant _aha_ _!_ “Just in case you can’t read my shit handwriting,” he explains as he hands it to Harry. “I’d hate to miss out due to a technicality.”

 _Fat Bird Tattoo_ , it reads in bold script. Underneath is Louis’ name and number along with a Denver address. The overall design is tasteful and simple with a bit of edginess thrown in. Harry is both impressed and intrigued.

“You’re a tattoo artist?” he asks.

“Yeah! I have a shop with my best friend, Zayn, and his partner, Liam.”

“That’s so cool.”

“Thanks! I couldn’t help but notice your ink,” Louis gestures to Harry’s exposed arms. “It’s beautifully done. The detail on that ship is sick. May I?”

Harry consents to the implied request for a closer look and holds out his arm for Louis to inspect.

Louis grips his bicep with gentle pressure, carefully turning Harry’s arm as his fingers trace the lines of ink. “Gorgeous,” he breathes, looking up at Harry from beneath a pair of devastating lashes, his blue eyes soft and intense. _Sincere_. “I love nautical tattoos.”

“Thank you.” Harry blushes. “So do I.”

A smile crests Louis’ face like a wave breaking, and he taps his forefinger against the business card still clutched in Harry’s hand. “You can use that any time you want. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m an exceptionally good listener,” he pauses for a cheesy grin that’s probably meant to look silly and make Harry laugh, but in reality all it does is cause his heart to lurch in his chest. Louis is so breathtakingly beautiful.

He continues speaking, oblivious to the fact that thousands of butterflies have taken up residence in Harry’s stomach. “I’m also quite good at distractions I’ve been told, so if you ever need to, I don’t know, take your mind off things for a while…I’d be happy to provide you with a conversational outlet.”

“I—I don’t even know what to say. _Thank you_. I promise I’m usually much more articulate than this but…” Harry trails off, sniffling loudly and waving his hand in the general direction of his face to indicate what a hot mess he is currently.

“Don’t worry about it. And there’s no pressure with that,” Louis nods towards his business card and the piece of paper he originally scrawled his number on. “I’m here if you ever want to talk. If not, then it was really lovely to meet you, Harry, and I hope going forward your days are much better than this one.”

“Are you real?” Harry blurts out before he can bite back the impulse.

Louis, without missing a beat, pats himself down and then places a hand on his chest like he’s feeling around for a heartbeat. “Last time I checked…yup, _oof_ , still kicking in there.”

Harry honks out an embarrassing excuse for a laugh, so loud that a woman passing the aisle they’ve commandeered shoots a displeased glance his way. In contrast, Louis looks at him with the kind of gentle fondness that usually takes years of familiarity to cultivate between two people.

“Sorry, it’s just...I’m not used to people being this kind. I wanted to make sure you weren’t some sort of card aisle genie I hallucinated.”

Louis purses his lips, doing an absolutely terrible job of fighting back his own laughter. _Well_. On second thought, he managed it much more successfully than Harry did.

“ _Card aisle genie?_ ” he teases with an arch of his brow.

“Oh, shush,” Harry grumbles, pushing his lower lip out in a pout. “I told you I’m usually much more articulate than this.”

“No, no,” Louis is quick to interject, “I thought it was a very cute comparison!”

He beams at him. Harry can’t remember the last time he felt this warm.

 _Dancing Queen_ starts playing loudly from what he assumes is Louis’ phone, and Harry has to stifle a giggle as he watches him frantically grope himself in search of it.

“I think there’s a disco going on in your pocket,” he supplies helpfully.

Louis winks at him, and finally manages to extract his phone from his jeans. “Anyone who says they don’t love this song is a filthy liar who shouldn’t be trusted,” he says before looking down at the screen. “Shit,” he curses under his breath, looking back up at Harry with apologetic eyes and a conflicted expression. He silences the call but doesn’t decline it. “I’m so sorry to be rude, but I have to take this. It’s one of my little sisters.”

Harry catches a glimpse of the screen, lit up by a photo of Louis with his arm slung around the shoulders of a teenage girl with similar bone structure to his and long, dark hair. Their cheeks are pressed together, Louis pulling a funny face at the camera while the girl looks like she was mid-laugh at the time the photo was taken. The overall effect is unbearably sweet. Harry simultaneously feels a strong surge of affection for Louis and a little pang of longing in his heart when he thinks of his own sister and how long it’s been since he’s seen her.

“No, please, you’re not rude at all,” he insists, waving away Louis’ concern. “Thank you again for everything, Louis. You were a bright patch in an otherwise truly awful day.”

“Happy to help,” Louis says with what Harry can tell is true sincerity. He gives Harry’s hand a comforting squeeze, then climbs to his feet and starts walking backwards out of the aisle. “I really hope you feel better soon, Harry...and that you call me,” he tacks on with a wink. “ If you want to, that is. No pressure. Bye!”

He waves once and fiddles with his phone to accept the call, greeting his sister in that soft, melodic voice of his with an affectionate, “Hello, love.”

And then he’s gone.

Harry remains completely still for a moment, staring straight ahead and barely even breathing. _What the fuck just happened?_ he wonders before the dam breaks and he bursts into a fit of giddy, incredulous laughter.

He’s halfway convinced he just had a conversation with an actual angel whilst sitting on the floor of the card aisle in Target. Stranger things have happened, he supposes. His fingers twitch, causing the two pieces of paper still clutched in his hand to rustle. He looks down and smiles at the undeniable proof that their encounter was indeed real.

His cheeks ache with the width of his dopey grin as he traces the curves of Louis’ messy handwriting with his fingertip, endeared by the way it contrasts so starkly with the sleek professionalism of his business card. He tucks both of them into his wallet, gets to his feet and brushes himself off before collecting his abandoned cart and making his way to the check out.

The smile doesn’t leave his face the entire time.

<<<>>>

The next morning when Harry wakes up (in his bed, not on the couch, mind you) he doesn’t over-think it when his first instinct is to text Louis.

 ** _Hiiii, it’s Harry :)_** he sends.

The ellipsis pops up almost instantly to indicate that Louis is typing. Harry’s cheeks warm as a hopeful smile paints itself across his face. It’s a little fragile, a little timid, but it’s more real than anything he has felt in a while.

**Hello, Harry :)))) how are you this morning?**

**_Better :)_** Harry responds. _Mostly thanks to you_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. Instead he takes a deep breath and types, **_I was actually wondering if I could take you up on that offer to talk?_**

**Absolutely, I’m all ears :)**

Harry takes an even deeper breath and holds it this time. _Here goes nothing..._

**_I was also wondering if you maybe wanted to do it in person? We could meet for coffee or brunch if you’re free?_ **

**Free as a bird. I don’t have to be at the shop until this afternoon** , Louis replies along with a string of colorful bird emojis, quickly followed by, **and I’d love to :)**

At this point, Harry’s smile is like an irresponsible tenant he can’t evict. It remains stubbornly in place as they arrange the details of meeting up for brunch at a little place Louis describes as “life-changing.” He waxes poetic for roughly five minutes about their French toast as if the promise of his presence alone wasn’t enough to immediately sell Harry on the idea.

He has an hour to shower and get ready before he needs to leave, and it’s ridiculous really, but he and Louis don’t stop texting the entire time.

He’s whistling as he grabs his keys and heads out the door with a spring in his step. A startled laugh bubbles from his lips when he recognizes the tune as the _Smashmouth_ song Louis had been complaining about the night before.

Today is going to be a good day.

A wonderful, beautiful, no bad, very good day.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos are always appreciated and comments make my day. I'd love to hear from you :)
> 
> If you’d like to reblog the fic post on tumblr, you can do so [here.](https://beau-soleil-louis.tumblr.com/post/618464867057336320/i-cant-do-this-alone-sometimes-i-just-need-a)
> 
> Thank you again to the wonderful mods for putting this fest together! Be sure to check out the other amazing fics!


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